


Domestic Life Was Never Quite My Style

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Non-Stop Gifts/AUs [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anger, Anxiety, Arrest, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Child Abuse, Child Protective Services, Depression, Discrimination, Domestic, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized racism, Lawyers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Parent-Child Relationship, Racism, Self-Hatred, Siblings, racial profiling, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John receives the phone call late at night. His father's dead. His three year old sister has no other guardians willing to take her in except for him. Her name is Frances. She has autism. Lafayette takes one look at her and calls her "Francine", and they take her home. </p><p>Being a parent is hard. </p><p>Especially when you're still a child. </p><p>_________________</p><p>Non-stop Au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).



> Another Non-Stop AU, although this is more extreme than most. You don't necessarily have to read the main story to read this.

They’re on the couch when they get the news. John leaning against Lafayette’s chest. Dozing as Lafayette reads one of his school books. Highlighting when he needs to. Holding the book above John’s head, and arranging his arms so he can hold John and write at the same time. It’s not practical, but it works. John’s half asleep when his phone rings. He swats at his pocket. Struggling back into consciousness. The hardest fight he’s ever fought. Lafayette kisses his crown. Amused. 

By the time John manages to turn the phone on. Answer it. It’s almost rung out. But he manages with a slurred “‘lo?” Lafayette generally doesn’t listen to John’s conversations. Is much more invested in what Piaget has to say. But John gasps out a “What?” and sits up so fast Lafayette doesn’t have time to move his book. Slamming his forehead into the spine, nearly knocking it from Lafayette’s grasp entirely. John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s on his feet. “Say that again.” 

John’s not tired anymore. He’s  _ filled  _ with energy. Adrenaline coursing through him so quick Lafayette can smell it. He sits up straight. Watches as John starts pacing. Lafayette sets the book on the coffee table. Any pretense for not listening, gone. 

“When?” John’s voice is straining. His hands are shaking. 

Lafayette pulls his legs under him. Takes inventory. His wallet’s in his jacket pocket. His keys on the key ring by the door.  _ Where they belong.  _ “John?” he asks carefully. 

“My father just dropped dead,” John replies shortly. “What-no I’m  _ not  _ going to apologize for that  _ Martha. _ Where are you right now? Where’s your mother?” 

He’s still pacing. More frantically than before. He’s a mess. Lafayette stands up. Walks to his keys and activates the automatic car starter. They’re going to be going somewhere. Doesn’t matter where. Lafayette just knows. They’re going to be travelling somewhere. “Samantha.” John sighs. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t sound sorry. If anything. He’s going through the motions.

Only reason he’s lasted this long is because he’s running on adrenaline. Anger pushing him forwards. Giving him a chance to talk without flinching. Without pausing. “Has someone told Junior and James—no she said...Marty said Alice was with him.” 

John’s feet fall to a stop. He stares blankly at the wall in front of him. “Again?” he drawls slowly. Lafayette can almost hear the voice on the other side huffing a response. “Daughter…?” John asks. “Wait, what the hell do you mean you— _ what?”  _ He lifts a hand to his eyes. Rubs at them. “Where’s Frances now?” 

He rushes to snatch his jacket off the back of a chair. Struggles to get his hands in the sleeve while pinching the phone to his shoulder. He’s out the door before he’s even off the call. Lafayette trailing behind him. John’s feet slow to a stop, and he blinks at the running car. Turns back to frown at Lafayette. Phone still pinched to his ear. “No I’m three hours away. I’ll be there when I can.” 

Waving toward the car, Lafayette shrugs. Welcomes John to proceed. He does. Walking about to sit in the passenger seat. Lafayette sits behind the wheel. They’re on the road only a few moments later. 

The call clicks to an end. Lafayette has no idea which direction she should be driving in. He waits for John to explain. “Car crash,” John murmurs. “He was drunk. He got into a car crash.” John’s seatbelt digs against his throat. His hands lay limp in his lap.

He stares out the windshield. Licks his lips. “He got married again. Divorced. Married. I don’t. He’s got another kid.” For someone who never talks about his family life, this is more information than John’s ever offered. Than Lafayette’s ever heard. He starts towards the interstate. Lets John continue explaining in a daze. “Frances. She’s three.”

Left or right. North or south. “John?” Lafayette presses quietly. Waiting for a decision. John stares at the street signs. Shock’s finally settling in. 

“South.” 

Lafayette turns the car to the right. They have a long drive ahead of them. 

 

***

 

Francine Laurens is three years old. She has curly blonde hair and a smattering of freckles. Blue eyes. And John’s button nose. Her mouth and jaw matches John’s as well. Or, perhaps a better way to look at it, is that Francine  _ shares _ the same genetic tendencies as her older brother. 

Lafayette’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that someone could be so detached from his family that he didn’t realize his father had been married and begotten another sibling for three years. John seems to still be reeling from the news that a man he’s despised is well and truly gone. 

John’s father’s house is opulent. Massive. The grounds are sprawling. The building far too much for a single man, his wife, and their young child. Even Lafayette’s house in France had seemed miniature by comparison. And Lafayette never thought his house could be called small. 

One of Henry Laurens’ employees let them in. They look at John with a slightly star-struck expression. As if finally putting a name to the face of someone oft referenced. They don’t seem particularly  _ surprised  _ he’s there. Just. A little dumbfounded. 

But they don’t stop John from finding Frances. They don’t stop him from slowly opening the door to her bedroom, and staring at her. Frances is sitting with a doll in her lap. A glossy book in front of her. She pinches the pages between her fingers. Squeezing them together as she pulls one page over. Turns it. Then the next. There’s music playing from a pink little stereo. She seems more interested in running her hands over the glossy book. 

She doesn’t look up at John. Just keeps squashing pages between her fingers and palm. Slides it to the other side. Squish. Squish. Squish. “John?” Lafayette whispers. He takes a step deeper into the room. Glances around them as if any moment something could explode from under Frances’ bed. 

“Her parents are dead,” John murmurs. Frances squishes another page in her book. It’s the last one. She frowns. Tiny pink lips twisting about on her pale  _ pale  _ face. Looking up at John, her blue eyes widen. Her lips pull back in a great smile. She holds the book in front of her chest and shows him the glossy page in the back. 

“Ah-ah!” she tells him with pride. He has nothing to say to that. Can only blink at her. This is the first day they’ve met. And she hardly seems to realize it. 

The staff member who’d been chaperoning Frances before they arrived, quietly slips out the door. Leaving them alone. Talks in hushed voices to her colleagues. Frances isn’t her responsibility any longer. Her employer is dead. “When is your step-mother coming back?” Lafayette asks carefully. 

“She’s not.” The information is new. Startling. 

Unsurprising. 

Lafayette returns his attention to the little girl. 

For a child who’s just lost her parents, she seems quite...happy. Too happy. Big blue eyes stare up at John. Then turn toward Lafayette. The book falls from her fingers. She reaches out toward him. Hands opening and closing. Bending knuckles.  _ Gimme!  _ obvious. 

She toddles toward him. “Ah-ah!” passes John and nearly bumps into Lafayette’s legs. So focussed is she on raising her hands up to reach above Lafayette’s head. John’s watching them. Face inscrutable. “You’re taking her home,” Lafayette realizes suddenly. John’s lips press tight. 

“I’ll bring her to the dorm. Find something from there.” His face twists with disatisfaction. “The staff’s leaving.” 

Frances keeps reaching higher. “Ah-ah!”

Lafayette bends his knees. She’s so tiny. He needs to lean down to get on eye level for her. But she’s not interested in his eyes. She’s interested in his hair. 

She throws her hands into his hair and — okay  _ that’s  _ an odd feeling. “Ah-ah!” 

John’s watching him warily. And Lafayette knows. Knows this is another test. Knows this is another breaking point in the fragile relationship they’ve started to build. John’s going to bring his sister back to the dorm. So she’s not at the house. Not an imposition. Not in Lafayette’s way. He’s going to do this...why?

He’s never met this girl before. Four hours ago they hadn’t been thinking about little girls in pink dresses. Reading glossy paged books on their bedroom floors. “They’ll put her in foster care.” John whispers. He’s afraid of something. Upset. “My step-moms,” because apparently his father re-married no less than four times after his mother’s death, “they won’t take her.”

Frances poofs his hair. Strokes it like a cat. Tugging and pulling and giggling as she plays with its edges. It’s volume. She likes it. It’s amusing to her. “I’m the only one old enough...to take her in.” Frances places her hands on Lafayette’s cheeks. Kisses them. First left. Then right. He wonders who taught her that. “Alex was in foster care.” 

Lafayette reaches up, and places his hands on Frances’ slim hips. He hoists her up into the air. Holds her to him. She laughs loudly. Kicking her legs back and forth. Lafayette knows Alex had been in foster care. Knows Alex’s stories  _ about _ foster care. “Let us stay the night here,  _ non? _ ” Lafayette suggests. “We’ll need to gather her things in the morning.”

“Things.” John doesn’t seem to understand the concept of the word.

For a man whose possessions include an armful of clothes, school work, and a stuffed turtle, John’s hopeless when it comes to items of personal value. “Things,” Lafayette agrees. “If she’s going to live with us, she’ll need some things.” 

John stares at him. “We don’t live together,” he whispers. Stunned and uncertain.

Lafayette doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just looks down at blonde little Frances, who couldn’t look less like John’s sister if she tried. She smiles at him.  _ Okay.  _ He decides.  _ She’s theirs. _

 

***

 

Frances hadn’t been raised by her parents. Lafayette discovers that very shortly after they start collecting Frances’ things. Her parents had little to do with her. The staff have a guide book instead. And they’ve rotated out so frequently that Frances has few attachments to any of them. They regard her as they regard a dirty spoon. Something to be cleaned and set aside until useful. 

“He’s never been hands on,” John mumbled in regards to his father. Never calling him by any affectionate title or moniker. Lafayette’s almost certain John would call the man ‘Henry’ if he could get away with it. Instead, he avoids the mention as much as he is able. “He doesn’t like kids.” 

Frances is sitting on her bed with her glossy paged book. Squinting at the pages. Her hair’s a mess. Her clothes are rumpled. The staff say she’s not their concern. “He has...five?” Lafayette questions. John’s searching for a brush. He finds it settled on an armoire too mature for such a tiny child. 

“Martha, Junior, James, Frances, and me.” 

The names are intriguing. Lafayette can’t help but ask, “Why are you not ‘Junior’. You are the eldest.” 

“Why would he name  _ me  _ Junior?” he asks quietly. Staring at the brush as if it was going to answer him. Letting his hand fall to his side, he gives Lafayette a disparaging look. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Frances is  _ white.”  _

Lafayette blinks. Blinks again. He turns back to look at the small child. Mouth thinning to a single line. Lips disappearing as he presses them tight. “I take it your father and siblings—”

“White. Whiter than bread. Mayonnaise. Crackers. Whatever the fuck you want to call them. I  _ look  _ like their  _ staff _ . My mom  _ was  _ his staff.” Lafayette thinks back to the photograph John keeps in an envelope by his bed. A gorgeous woman holding a small brown skinned child in her arms. Freckles and curly hair. Smile so bright she could shame the stars. “They were young. She served in their household. Cleaned their floors. They thought they were in love. Ran away and got married. Then he woke up one day and realized having a colored kid like me did nothing for his reputation. His happiest day was when my mother died. Gave him an excuse to find someone who looked right. Someone to complete the family portrait.” 

It’s more than John’s ever said about his family. Lafayette feels his hands start to clench. His irritation growing. Grateful that Henry Laurens had died. Furious that he’d died without the suffering he truly deserved.

John rubbed at his cheek. As if he could somehow wipe away his dark skin. As if he could somehow scrub it down. Make it white. With his brown eyes and his crinkly hair. He’d never pass it off. He’d never be able to be something he wasn’t. “He told Samantha I didn’t want to be around her.” Lafayette walks toward Frances’ bed. Sits down. The little girl is absorbed in her book. She doesn’t lift her head. 

His boyfriend is staring off in the distance. Not looking at anything. Lost somewhere between past and present. Losing any sense of time or reality. “Told her that I hated her. Couldn’t move on.” He kept rubbing at his cheek. “Got me an apartment near the school. Had me live there alone while he had his own life. With her. Martha.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten. Mom died the year before.” Tears start falling from his eyes. “Samantha divorced him when she saw my apartment. Said it was cruel. He got mad about that.”

“That wasn’t your fault.” 

Like it mattered. The words are useless. Years too late, and not even a little bit helpful even if he’d heard them then. John’s lived a lifetime since he was a child. He’s been on his own. He’s learned how to live on his own. For better or for worse. 

Lafayette’s words are meaningless. And John’s deaf to them. Makes no motion he’s heard. Keeps staring at the wall. Rubbing at his skin like washing away a curse. Lafayette stands. “Did he hit you?” He doesn’t ask if John liked it. He knows he wouldn’t.

“I’m not letting Frances go into foster care,” John replies instead. He doesn’t continue his story. Doesn’t pick up where he left off. Leaves it at that. 

Lafayette lets him get away with it. The man of John’s nightmares is dead. There’s nothing else that can be done. Except. For Frances. “Francine,” he decides. John’s brows furrow. “I think I’ll call her ‘Francine’.” They look at the little girl. She doesn’t seem to care one way or another. Just keeps reading her book. 

 

***

 

They spend a day cleaning out one of the spare bedrooms and turning it into a nursery. They don’t paint the walls. But they do setup her bed. Bring in all the toys they can find. Arrange things just so. 

Frances doesn’t speak. She does stare at the world around her in open wonder and confusion. She holds onto her books. Looks out the window. Kicks her little baby legs in her car seat. She latches onto Lafayette the moment he unbuckles her from the car. And Lafayette is perfectly at ease with dragging her up onto his shoulders. Letting her sit there and hold fistfulls of his hair between her palms. 

She burrows her face into it. Tugging it this way and that. John watches him with wide eyes. Disbelieving. “I have interacted with children before,  _ mon amour, _ ” he informs John primly. 

Granted, not a child like Francine. But children nonetheless. Francine’s caregiver had given them a book filled with instructions. She side eyed them both as they had packed Francine’s things. Explained that Frances needed a schedule. Routine. That she didn’t like strangers.

There’d been an awkward moment where the caregiver lifted her eyes to where Francine had been burying her head in Lafayette’s hair, and John couldn’t help the snort. Asking, “Does she  _ know  _ he’s a stranger?” in an acerbic tone. 

“Well you’re certainly a stranger to  _ her,”  _ the woman had snapped back. John flinched. Ducking his head and muttering darkly under his breath. Lafayette felt his anger rising.  _ How dare she?  _

Francine had yet to really look at John at all. Her eyes skittered past him. She didn’t react to him. Didn’t seem to notice him standing at Lafayette’s side. Didn’t respond when he asked her questions. If not for her fascination with his hair, Lafayette was certain he’d receive the same treatment. But at least for now she seemed content occupying herself with him.

If Francine’s inattention bothered John, he did his best not to show it. Considering his phone continued ringing off the hook with various siblings, lawyers, and step-mothers, Lafayette imagined John was actually happy Francine at least had something to distract her. She fell asleep, flopped over Lafayette’s skull. Tiny hands still wound in his hair. A topsy-turvy hat that wiggled from time to time. 

Organizing Francine’s bedroom didn’t take as long as it could have, though. By the end of their first day with her, she was the privileged owner of her own ten by ten. Small and cramped compared to her palatial room at her father’s house. She didn’t seem to mind. She’s got her books. She’s got Lafayette’s hair. She seems very happy. 

He moves her to her new bed. And she curls around her favorite things. Sleeps just fine. Lafayette steps out of her room to find John curled up on the floor next to her door. He’s sitting on his butt. Knees pulled up to his chest. Arms wrapped around his legs. 

Lafayette sighs. Sits down across from him. Their feet slide against each other in the hall. Legs knocking side by side. “What do you need?” he asks. Because right now he hasn’t got a clue. So much has changed within the last twenty-four hours. John never talks about his family. Never mentions his father. Never brings up his siblings. He doesn’t like confrontation. He doesn’t like other people in his space. There’s not much he likes about anything that’s happened. 

He’s doing it anyway.  _ “Pourquoi, mon cherie?” _

_ “Parce que je le dois,” _ John replies. French falling off his tongue so much faster now. With confidence. He’s listened to Lafayette speak to him for months now. He has several playlists in nothing but French. When he speaks, Lafayette will occasionally correct the pronunciation. And French sounds glorious on John’s tongue. 

_ “Elle est ta soeur. Pas ta fille.”  _

_ “Pourquoi fais-tu ça?” _ John asks. He lets his knees fall down. Lets his hands fall into his lap. “Why are you doing this?” he repeats in English. Crawling across the floor. Lafayette creates space for him. Spreads his legs. Lets John press his hands to his shoulders. Lets him crowd him against the wall. He barricades John’s body with his legs. Reaches his hands to squeeze John’s hips. Lets his nails dig into John’s perfect skin. 

“Do I need a reason?” 

John’s offering himself to him. Baring his body. Wilfully submitting beneath Lafayette’s hands. And Lafayette can see how this goes. Can see John meek and submissive beneath him. Thinking it’s what Lafayette wants. Thinking that it’ll get John what  _ he  _ wants. 

The thought is utterly repulsive. “Yes,” John whispers to him. “You need a reason.” The terms must be set in John’s mind. He must know his groundwork. His foundation. Where he is and where he’s going to be. He wants to know his role. His place in life. 

“Because you’re mine,” Lafayette tells him firmly. He pinches John’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I look after what’s mine.” 

He’s telling the truth.

And John accepts it as fact. The night ends. Both of them listening for the sounds of Francine, Lafayette holding John’s body tight. Squeezing it close. Hurting and being hurt in turn. It’s the only way they can breathe.  

 

***

 

Francine eats the same meal every day. She likes peanut butter and apples for breakfast. A tuna-fish sandwich for lunch. Green beans and crackers for dinner. No alterations. No changes. She eats at the same time every night. 

Her schedule is mandatory. They take turns making sure it’s followed. John goes to class while Lafayette watches her. Lafayette does the same. She’s mostly quiet. Hums to herself occasionally while she plays with her books. Smiles to herself always. But if her schedule is broken she sobs uncontrollably. No amount of cuddling able to calm her down.

When she’s asleep, they go downstairs. Beat each other until they can’t move. More painful, but less violent, in equal measures. John only stops when he can no longer stand. When he can no longer think. Can barely breathe. Lafayette takes him down faster. Smarter. Aims for places that won’t ruin John’s ability to serve as caretaker. 

Three days after Francine has become theirs, the night John’s signed her guardianship paperwork, Lafayette fights him. The difference is obvious. Fractured walls splintering like broken glass. Lafayette aims a  _ slow  _ punch towards John, and he lets it hit him. Lets his hand drop. Lets Lafayette take him down. Strike him as he does nothing to defend himself. 

Lafayette’s fury is blinding. He pulls John up by his throat. Slams him against a wall. John’s crying. Really crying now. Not simply tearing up from biology or otherwise. He’s sobbing. And Lafayette drops him. Has no idea what he’s supposed to do. How he’s supposed to fix this. John hated his father. The funeral’s tomorrow and they’d already decided not to go. But John’s crying so hard he’s barely breathing.

And he’s  _ using _ Lafayette to punish himself. “I don’t fight you for this,” Lafayette tells him. Their fights had never been about punishment. About shame. About willful torture. John  _ liked  _ getting off with Lafayette. He fought back because he liked fighting. Liked throwing punches. Liked watching as blood swelled under his fingers. Adrenaline its own form of high. “If I wanted to beat someone I’d beat Alex.” 

It’s a cruel thing to say, given the circumstances. Alex just barely recovering from his last run in with someone who had no qualms about beating him. He says it to get a rise out of John. To force him into fighting back. John’s collapsed on the floor. Shaking apart before his eyes. 

Lafayette doesn’t know what to do. 

He calls Alex. No point in trying to make things better. When Alex picks up, he cuts to the chase. “I need your help.” 

 

***

 

Alex arrives with bells on. He explodes through Lafayette’s front door. Aaron scurrying after him. Lafayette can hear them both on the stairs. Alex thumping down into the basement. Rounding the corner and finding John sprawled against Lafayette’s chest. Still crying. He hasn’t stopped. It’s been nearly half an hour. But John hasn’t stopped crying. And he shows no signs of stopping.

Lafayette shifts as Alex hurries forward, passing John into his care as Aaron finally appears at the bottom of the staircase. With John secured, Lafayette can approach Burr. Can snatch him by the arm and drag him back up to the main house. He has  _ no business  _ being down there with John and Alex. Not right now. Not ever. 

John’s in pieces at the moment, and he deserves his own privacy. 

He releases Aaron when they get to the living room. Lets him go and walks to the kitchen. Aaron, thankfully, doesn’t press his luck. He follows, if a little warily, and lingers half in the hallway. Lafayette doesn’t care. His heart is pounding in his throat. John’s submitted to him before. Yes. He’s given in. 

But he’s never…. never just laid beneath him and wanted to get beaten for no other reason than to be  _ beaten.  _ Especially not for the pleasure of the blow. John hadn’t been enjoying himself. Hadn’t wanted to fight. He’d let Lafayette hit him because it was what  _ Lafayette  _ had wanted to do at the time. 

He was going to be sick. 

Lafayette’s hands slammed to the edges of the counter. Aaron jumps beside him. It doesn’t matter. He breathes in sharply. Ignoring Aaron completely. Just focuses on keeping calm. On not losing his mind. On not taking it out on anything other than himself. 

There’s a shift upstairs. A high pitched whine. Aaron whips his head about. Stairs at the ceiling like it might collapse on him.

_ Francine.  _

Pulling in one last breath, Lafayette pushes away from the counter. Goes to soothe the child. Aaron gets in his way. “What was that?” he asked. More aggression and dedication than Lafayette’s ever seen him portray.

“John’s sister.” He goes to push past Aaron, but Aaron places a hand on his chest. Plants his feet  _ firmly  _ in Lafayette’s way.

It’s the shock that forces Lafayette’s feet to stop. Nailed to the floor.  _ What a presumptuous little—  _ “You’re not going up there like this,” Aaron all but commands. 

“What exactly do you think I’m going to—” his mouth snaps closed. He knows what Aaron thinks he’s going to do. The thought is so putrid, so utterly repugnant, Lafayette feels his temper snap. He snatches Aaron’s arms and twists. Throws him to the floor. Just barely manages to keep from kicking the man while he’s down. It takes everything he has to not do so. “ _ Casse-toi!”  _

He’s up the stairs before Aaron can get up off the floor. Opens the door before Aaron manages to follow him. It doesn’t matter, Francine is in her bed. And she’s crying. She’s crying big fat baby tears, and Lafayette goes to her. Murmurs sweetly in French. Trails his fingers over her arm to capture her attention. Then bends down so she can see his face. His hair.

She lifts her hands and grabs it immediately. And he pulls her up. Cradles her against his shoulder. Rubs her back and hushes her. Aaron slides into the doorway, breathing hard. Looking for all the world like he expected Lafayette to be beating Francine bloody here in her bedroom. 

Her hiccuping cries had started to subside while she’d been held, but they started up the moment she saw Aaron. Wailing even louder. Piercing Lafayette’s ears. He squeezes her a little tighter. Giving her a tight embrace. Shooshing her as he fumbles for her blanket. It feels wrong in his hand. He’d known it was wrong when they packed it. 

Granted his understanding of early child developmental disorders was comprised of his junior year baccalaureate level course load. But he’d at least paid attention. He’d read the books. He’d taken the tests. Her blanket was warm, but not heavy enough. They’d need to get something else. 

Her guide book said she liked layers. Maybe it’d been less about layers and more about weight. He wraps it around her anyway. Still speaking in French. She likes the sound of it. Likes hearing it. She settles her head against his and lets him rock her. Hold her tight and keep her safe and warm.  _ “Mon petit Chou…” _ he tells her. Cupping a hand to the back of her head. Letting her nestle in against him. 

She doesn’t seem like she wet herself. Her diaper isn’t full. But she hiccups and cries against him. And doesn’t stop for a long while. Aaron watching him incredulously from start to finish. Monitoring the situation. Not trusting that Lafayette had no intentions of harming Francine in any way. 

Fuck him. 

Aaron had no right to judge. 

 

***

 

Francine doesn’t go back to sleep. Stays stubbornly awake and clingy. She stops crying. Though she’s unhappy. “Ah-ah”ing against his head as she pulls on Lafayette’s hair. He takes her downstairs. Carries her to the sofa where he curls up with her in his lap. Aaron asks, “What’s her name?” Lafayette doesn’t answer.

He pulls the guidebook out and starts flicking through pages. Trying to find any reason why she’d wake up like this. There’s a page towards the back.  _ Wakes up during the night. Ignore.  _ He tosses the book in the garbage. Cursing as he rocks Francine back and forth. 

He has one of his  _ Early Childhood  _ books somewhere. It’s hidden under  _ Abnormal Psychology  _ and  _ Piaget.  _ Snatching  _ it,  _ he starts trying to find something to answer. 

He can’t encourage her to eat something. Can’t entice her to let him go. Go back to sleep. He can feel his eyes starting to burn. He’s exhausted. But Francine is impervious. 

She hugs on tight and she doesn’t let go. And is still there when John and Alex come up from the basement. John’s eyes go to Francine immediately. His shoulders sagging. “She’s having a rough night,” Lafayette warns him. John nods. Wanders closer. The bruises on his skin stand out. It’s uncomfortable. They make Lafayette’s stomach twist. 

He balances Francine with one arm. Uses the other to cup the back of John’s head. Bring his face closer so he can kiss his brow. “Do not do that again,” he tells John firmly. His boyfriend nods. 

“Sorry,” he offers. Even as he reaches for Francine. Shifts her from Lafayette’s hold to his own. Francine’s eyes start welling. She’s going to cry again. Lafayette can see it. But when she looks at John, she stops. Raises her tiny little fingers to poke at his bruised cheek. “Sorry,” he tells Francine too. She presses a kiss to his cheeks. First the left. Then the right. Then she rests her little head against his shoulder. And promptly falls asleep. 

John looks like he might start to cry again. But instead, Alex guides him out of the kitchen and upstairs. Lafayette hopes he’s putting John to sleep. John  _ desperately  _ needs to sleep. 

 

***

 

The next day, John floats about the house. He holds Francine. Sits next to her while she plays with her book. Cuts her her apples. Gives her her peanut butter. He’s in shock. Can’t bring himself to muster up enough energy to react to his surroundings. Lafayette holds onto him. “You’re okay,” he whispers against John’s head. Tries to ignore the shaking. Tries to piece him back together again. 

“Just because you hate someone, doesn’t mean you’re ready for it when they die,” Alex muttered quietly the night before. Lafayette doesn’t need Alex to tell him that. The proof is obvious. John’s breaking apart right in front of him. He doesn’t know what to do.

His father’s funeral is at noon. Lafayette watches as John stares at the clock. Counts the seconds until it starts. Francine doesn’t notice. Just keeps playing. By twelve-thirty, John’s leaning on Lafayette’s shoulder. He’s shaking. 

The clock keeps ticking. John’s whole family will have been together. Step-mothers. Siblings. Alex said, “John hasn’t been allowed to see his siblings in years.” This would have been his only opportunity to see them together. Alex said, “John’s always wanted his father’s approval.” Then, quieter, “I know what that’s like.” 

Wanting someone who abuses you to love you. Wanting someone who hates you to treat you well. Lafayette wants to raise Henry Laurens from the dead. Wants to drag him before John. Throw him to John’s mercy. Knows, that if he does that, it won’t be Henry Laurens. Bleeding on the floor. It’ll be John. John, who wouldn’t raise a finger to his father. Who would let the man hate him. Because he thinks he deserves it. 

The clock chimes one. 

The speeches will have started now. All the dearly beloved gathering round. Sobbing into handkerchiefs. Accepting condolences. 

Francine lets out a shrill laugh. She lifts the book up to show John. And John takes it mechanically. Brown hands sliding over white fingers. Flinching away. Ashamed and uncertain. Lafayette wonders whose voice is narrating the actions in John’s head. He wonders if necromancy can be a thing. 

One-thirty. Maybe some music will play. Something stiff and formal. Maybe someone will remember to give John a brief mention. Maybe no one will bother to think of John. Or Francine. 

Lafayette pulls John closer. Cups his cheeks. “In France, I lived in  Haute-Loire. Do you know where that is?” John doesn’t answer. It’s fine. Lafayette doesn’t really expect him to remember this conversation in the morning. “If you place your finger in the center of a map. Trail it down just a touch. It is there. It is beautiful you know. So much more than this.” He adjusts John. “I will take you there sometime. Perhaps this summer. Over break. You and Francine. You’ll like it.” 

John closes his eyes and breathes out. Leans his head forward so he rests his brow on Lafayette’s lips. 

The clock chimes two. 

“I have a mémé...she will dote on Francine. Our little one. You as well. You’ll want for nothing.”

“Why are you doing this?” John asks him again.

“Because you’re mine,” Lafayette responds once more. “You’re mine.” He kisses John soundly. Francine giggle. Claps her hands. Walks over to them and Lafayette lets her mimic the action. She presses her lips to his cheek. Left then right. She’s very proud of herself. She kisses John too. And he sighs. 

  
Closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath in. Stands up. “Okay.” He meets Lafayette’s gaze. “Okay.” 


	2. Chapter 2

John’s been letting his hair down. It hangs around his face, bounces when he walks. _Bounces_. Lafayette snorts when he sees him in the mornings. Hair popping about in all directions; hands running through it absently. He tucks it behind his ears, uselessly. And every ten minutes, it's back in his face. Making a mess and being distracting.

But Francine loves it. She laughs whenever she sees him. Reaches her hands up to dive her tiny fingers through John's curls. While John cuts her apples, Francine runs her fingers over each spiral. Flapping her hands in time with each bouncy strand. If she sees Lafayette lurking in the corner, she waves him over too. Giggling and applauding when he steps forwards. Smiling as he settles into place at John’s side.

And the anxiety starts to fade.

Each morning John gets up with the sun. He wakes Francine, focuses on getting her happy and settled. He does his homework while she plays. Then, leaves her with Lafayette before he needs to go to class. He doesn't loiter on campus anymore. Instead, he comes home immediately. Settling on the floor with his books as she scrambles to mimic. Lafayette hums as he watches them. Side by side, turning pages and reading aloud in turns. 

She pokes the buttons on the books that make sound. “Apple...Apple...Apple…” chanting through the house when she clicks the appropriate picture. Lafayette gets her the weighted blanket he’d been thinking of. Texture balls. Stuffed animals. More music. He cannot seem to stop. It's a strange sensation, one that drives him forward. Wanting to give her the world. 

He downloads song after song for her. He teaches her _Frère Jacques,_ and he _s_ ings it every night. Running his fingers through her blonde hair as he enunciates each word. 

 

_Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,_

_Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?_

_Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines_

_Ding ding dong, ding ding dong._

 

She likes it so much, that he’s caught John humming it under his breath. Kneeling at her bedside and settling her with it. He rubs her back until she finally tucks under. Sighing into the furry side of her stuffed toys.

And when he stands, steps away from his sister, and walks to join Lafayette in the hall, he’s calm. Satisfied. He doesn’t think of his father. Of failure. He just reaches for Lafayette’s hand and tugs him toward him. “Hey you,” he greets.

“ _Laurens,”_ Lafayette murmurs against his lips. Claiming them as his almost immediately.

John kisses have changed. He still fights for dominance. Still gives as good as he gets, but there’s a lingering affection in them. A wry smile when they’re done. A glimmer in his eyes that Lafayette remembers from a picture John no longer hid away.

Eleanor Ball’s photo is framed and sits in a place of honor by John’s side of the bed. He presses his fingers to it every morning. “Hey mom…” starts his day. Lafayette rolls over when John’s not there. Looks at Eleanor’s smiling face. Tries to imagine her as anything other than beautiful and happy. Can’t quite manage it.

He hopes Henry Laurens is burning in the harshest pit in hell.

John comes back in before he leaves for class. Kisses Lafayette hard and possessive. He never used to do that before. But Lafayette relishes it. Can’t resist grabbing John, pulling him back onto the bed. Twisting it so their bodies are intertwined. Presses against him and mouths his way down John’s throat.

And John _laughs_. Laughs and bucks under him. Lifts his hands to scratch _such sweet lines_ up Lafayette’s back. “I have to get to class,” he breathes against Lafayette’s lips. His body writhes beneath him. And then - kick and flip. John’s on top. _Oh, Good Boy._

John grins. He leans down and bites at Lafayette's throat. Shining light flickers behind Lafayette's eyelids. _Perfection._ It's gone in a moment. “Have a good day,” John wishes sweetly. Knowing he’s made Lafayette hard. Knowing that he’s leaving like an enticing minx. Knowing that tonight when they fight, Lafayette’s going to make him suffer for his flirtations.

He does it anyway.

Lafayette’s so proud of him.

 

***

 

Francine’s so tiny, that Lafayette wastes very little time getting a shoulder carrier for her. She eyes it with suspicion. But when he sets her in it, straps her legs down in front of his chest. Lets her put her fists around his hair, her hesitance fades away into elation. She slaps his hair like reins. _Giddy-up-horsie!_

And he runs.

Francine laughs. Voice shrill with delight. She laughs and laughs. Each beautiful sound spurring him forwards. He loves this. He loves running. Little Francine on his shoulders, hooting with open joy. Her musical sounds so foreign in this day and age, but perfect regardless. 

His muscles burn from the strain. His back aches. He pulls at muscles he’s never pulled before. But it’s so good. So perfect. The feeling is grounding and right. It washes away his need from before. Replaces it with a calming sense of _good morning_ that gets him ready for the day.

When he gets back to the house he guzzles down a glass of orange juice. Francine makes grabby hands for it. “Ah-ah!”

“You won’t like it,” he warns. Filling her sippy cup and passing it to her. She is thoroughly unimpressed with his assessment. Drinks it anyway.

Spits it out on the table. He snorts. Tries not to laugh at her disgusted face. “Ah-ah,” she tells him firmly. Pushing the cup to the side. He bites his lip.

“Ah-ah to you too,” he tells her. Taking the cup, he washes it out. Getches her some apple juice instead. She eyes it suspiciously, but giggles when she recognizes the taste. Swings her legs back and forth under her table. “Do you love me again?” he asks her, leaning down for her judgement. She considers. Then kisses his cheeks. Left and right.

“Oui-more-Oui-more,” she chants.

Lafayette grins. Pleased beyond measure. “I am telling John you said that.” Then goes to find a brush. Her hair is a mess.

 

***

 

That night, he pins John down. Relishes in the laughter John still can’t contain. Kisses him breathless. He ruts against John. Bites and scratches at his body. Pins him over and over. Pulling him up and throwing him down. Minding the throws, but getting John’s body into progressively more unique positions.

John’s addicted to this. And the absolute joy he has in these fights has become an addiction of Lafayette’s as well. The edging anxiety that always marked these fights in the past has become a memory. Not quite distant. But gone to say the least. John’s all over him. He’s fighting with an energy he never had before. And he blossoms unlike anything Lafayette’s ever seen.

John swirls around, flips their positions. Attacks and grins. When Lafayette finally gets him. His clever boy concedes defeat with a panting breath. An expectant expression. A quirk of his lips. He goes limp beneath Lafayette’s body. Boneless and pliant. “Now...how did you leave me this morning?” Lafayette muses. Matching John’s tone from earlier. Sweet and _knowing_. John gasps against his lips. Against the hips grinding down on top of him. Lafayette kisses John sharp and sweet. Relishes the moan he gives out. “Perhaps I should just leave you there. Leave you on the floor. Wake up our dear little girl. Tell you to tend to her while I go off to work.”

Lafayette palms Laurens’ cock. Rubs it hard and fast through John’s too thin shorts. He gasps. Moans low and throaty. “Shall I leave you?” Lafayette asks him. Sinks his teeth into his sweet _sweet_ boy’s shoulder. John’s head flies back.

“Gil…” _Fuck, that's enough._

Lafayette jerks John’s shorts down. Finds his hole. And brings John home.

 

***

 

They sit side-by-side in the morning. Sipping their tea as they press their arms together, elbow to elbow. Occasionally they'll knock into each other on purpose. Heads tilting closer and closer, as Francine watches with a knowing eye. She breaks the mood with requests for more apple juice. “Ah-ah” spiraling about the kitchen while her tony hand waves her cup about. 

“Ah-ah,” they respond in unison, still looking at each other. They've been in unison for months. Lafayette tries to think back to when they started together. When things were fresh and new. Nine...? Months ago? But now, sitting in this kitchen? He feels like he’s seeing John for the first time.

And John is beautiful.

 

***

 

“You two are disgustingly domestic,” Hercules snorts when he looks about Lafayette’s house. They’ve been overrun. There’s toys to the left. Toys to the right. Sippy cups. Hair clips. Books.

John sits on the floor with Francine. Reading and doing his homework while Francine looks at her books. Tongue sticking out of her mouth. She’s got butterfly clips in her hair today. When she moves they flap their wings, little beads reflecting light.

She reaches a hand out and tugs on John’s hair. It’s created a curtain on either side of his face. He looks up. Smiling at her on instinct. “ _Disgustingly_ domestic,” Mulligan repeats. Sighing as he shakes his head.

John’s hand slides across his pages to capture Francine’s. He winces. Lafayette frowns when he catches it. “John?”

“Papercut,” John holds up the hand. He brings his finger to his mouth and starts sitting up. Francine’s hand still tugging his bangs. “Sorry, love,” he murmurs. Detaching her hand.  She tears up. Lafayette sighs. Counts it down. _Trois deux un—_

Francine _screams_. Hercules jumps. Hands going to his ears. Francine can hit an octave that sends mere mortals to their knees. She’s got tears streaking down her face. Snot soon following. John’s a pushover. He bites his lip. Looks like he’s going to give in.

 _“Non, s'il te plaît,”_ he snaps his fingers, and both siblings look over to him. Francine still sobbing. She points at John. Grabbing hands toward him. His bleeding finger is _still_ captured between his lips. It’d almost be seductive if he didn’t look _so_ pathetic. “ _Tu ne vas pas,_ spoil that child.”

“Pot,” John drawls, pointing at Lafayette's face. He stands. Takes a step toward Lafayette. He reaches down and retrieves something off the floor. Francine's shoulder carry. John presses it against Lafayette's chest not one moment later. Smiling victoriously,  “Kettle.”

He disappears into the kitchen. Leaving Francine to end her tantrum on her own. She takes a deep breath. Prepares herself to continue her screaming fit, and Lafayette dangles the carry in front of her. “Ride?” he asks.

“She’s not a _dog,_ ” Hercules argues, still in a state of shock.

“Are you quite certain?” Lafayette questions as Francine leaps towards it and waves her hands to go up up _up!_

John comes back in, first aid kit in his grasp. He’s trying to open it without smearing blood on the side. His finger sticking up in the air. He wiggles it in Lafayette and Hercules’ general direction. Lafayette wiggles Francine right back. All three look to Hercules.

“ _Disgustingly_ domestic,” Mulligan sighs for the third time. He snatches the first aid kit and opens it with a flick of his thumbs. Francine pulls back from Lafayette. Wandering over to see the box. Staring at it with big blue eyes. Her nose pokes over the arm of the couch so she can see.

They keep the first aid kit well stocked. Band-aids. Instant ice packs. Cotton swabs. It's damn near professional if Lafayette does say so himself. Mulligan doesn’t comment. Instead, he pulls out a band-aid and starts wrapping it around John’s finger.

“Ah-ah!” Francine reaches for the kit. Waving her hands about even as Mulligan closes it and shakes his head.

He pitches his voice. Speaking, “No, no, no. That’s not for babies.”

"Neither is that voice," John mutters even as Francine’s face twists about. She doesn't like baby-talk. Her bottom lip warbles. New tantrum starting up. This time, Lafayette agrees. It's just not worth it.

Taking the kit away from Hercules, John passes it to Francine. Muttering, “It’s not like she’s going to poke her eye out.” 

And she doesn’t. She spends a few minutes figuring out how to open the box. Then the next four _hours_ organizing it by color. By size. By shape. She undoes the bandaids. Puts them on everyone with the kind of care and attention a first year nursing student.

Lafayette makes a note on their shopping list. They’re running low on band-aids. He puts a smiley-face next to it. Then a winking.

He’s not even surprised when John buys a box of kids band-aids next time he’s out. Every single one has an emoji on it. “Be specific next time,” John chastises.

_(Lafayette bites him hard enough to break skin. Just so he can put the emoji with a big toothy grin right over the wound he leaves. John snorts when he sees it. He doesn’t say it. But Lafayette knows. He’s amused.)_

 

***

 

Francine is their doctor.

Or Nurse.

Lafayette’s not sure how his has come to pass. From one day to the next, Francine’s pushed her glossy paged books to the side. Shoved away her cuddle toys. And has filled her pockets with bandaids, strung her neck with a stethoscope, and demanded a sphygmomanometer from them.

They buy her scrubs, little booties. They get her a doctor’s bag. Equipped with semi-functional toys that she methodically fiddles with throughout the day. She disregards the television unless there’s a doctor on. Abandoning John’s love for Animal Planet so they can watch every doctor show ever made.

She’s fascinated by their bruises. She’s mystified by their cuts. She attacks them with band-aids whether they need them or not. At any given moment, John’s got at least three or four on his arms, hands, and face.

Smiling cats. Super heroes. It’s become a trend. A joke between them. They go shopping for progressively more ridiculous band-aids. Seeing how far they can go. How much they can push the issue.

They’ve got Spiderman one week. Hello Kitty the next. Some of the kids at school are a bit shell-shocked when they see Lafayette on campus. Staring at the assortment of band-aids that he’s now brandishing as his latest fashion statement.

It makes more sense when Dr. Francine is on his shoulders. They seem to take the package all in one. But without his trusty side-kick, he can understand their stares. Mulligan even stares. Mouth falling open as he looks at them all. Lafayette had to peel at least three back to show that he didn’t actually have any blemishes to hide.

 _“La Princesse_ is quite ardent in her devotion,” Lafayette sighs good naturedly.

Mulligan looks a little green at the words. Shakes his head furiously, “ _Princesse_ is right. You’re just...really okay with all of this? It’s a little sudden isn’t it?”

They’ve had Francine for almost two month now. And the appeal hasn’t worn off. John’s reactions haven’t worn off. His smiles haven’t lost their sheen. Lafayette can still feel where John’s left his mark on him. Can still feel the way John twists within his grasp. “I’ve never even heard you talk about kids,” Mulligan continues. “But this...you’ve just gone all in.”

He’s right. And he has a point. But. The point’s invalidated. “I should have let him take her to the dorm? Live on his own? Encourage him to put her in foster care?” He says each word sweetly. Tone dripping with liquorice. “He will do this on his own, or he will not.” Lafayette traces a sunshine bandaid with his thumb. “I have decided. He will not.”

Hercules nods slowly. “Just don’t do anything you’re not prepared to deal with.”

Lafayette snorts.

“Like what?”

He shouldn’t have asked.

 

***

 

He’s not with John when it happens.

He gets a phone call while he’s in class. Ignores it. Lets it go to voicemail. It rings three more times in quick succession. And it’s the determination that gets him. He spares a glance at the professor, then sneaks out.

Opens his phone and frowns at the number. It rings across the screen for the fourth time. “John?”

“I’ve been arrested.” John’s voice is strained. He’s out of breath. He sounds like he’s hurt. Breath wheezing out of him too quick. Words slightly obscured. As if his nose was clogged.

He’d been fine hours earlier. “Where’s Francine?” because she was with John. They were going shopping. They needed more band-aids. Lafayette’s already heading back to class. Collecting his bags. Interrupting the lesson. The teacher starts talking at him, but he’s ignoring it.

Leaving immediately and heading down to his car. “They took her,” John gets out. “Social services. I told her I wouldn’t let them take her. I told her—”

“Where are _you?”_ He throws his bag into the passenger seat. Starts the car up and throws it in reverse.

He’s pulling out of the school grounds and heading down the road in moments.

“I got arrested.” He’s dazed. Like he can’t quite believe it either. It’s been months since he’s sounded like that. Insecurity washing over him and burning him alive. _Why does this keep happening?_

“Where are you right _now?_ ”

“They just took her. They said I-they said I-but I didn’t she just—”

 _“John!”_ The rambling stops. His breath shudders. “Tell me where you are.” There’s a pause. Then a quiet recitation of an address.

Lafayette’s ten minutes away.

He makes it in four.

 

***

 

John’s seated at a desk. Hands cuffed in front of his body. Head down. Cell-phone in the care and possession of a young officer who looks far too exhausted to be dealing with this. There’s a bruise on John’s face that wasn’t there when he left this morning. His lip’s split.

Lafayette approaches immediately. Gets down on one knee. Lifts a hand to John’s face. Angles it up to survey the damage. John’s eyes are bloodshot. A bruise is forming under his left brow. Making the lid puffy.

The officer coughs. _Well. He can suck on a lemon._ “John?” Lafayette asks carefully. The daze hasn’t abated. Not since their call ended. Not in the _scarce_ few minutes since then and now.

One of John’s hands reach out. Snatches Lafayette’s wrist. Squeezing it as he shivers beneath Lafayette’s touch. “They took her,” he whispers. Tears coming fast.

“What happened?” he asks shortly.

“There was a disturbance at Wegmans,” the cop begins. John jerks beneath Lafayette’s hand.

John cuts in, “She kept putting band-aids in the cart.” Voice pitching high. Rambling and stringing together. “She had the whole shelf in. And I told her we couldn’t take all of them. But then she got upset. She started screaming. I tried to get her to calm down, but she wouldn’t. So I took her out of the store and they—someone called the cops. They said I was—” he cuts himself off. Pulls in a shuddering breath. Shaking so violently now Lafayette pulled back from John so he could pull his jacket off. Drape it around John’s shoulders. “Kidnapping her,” John finishes. Eyes staring off somewhere in the middle distance.

Lafayette feels his heartbeat slow. His vision razor sharp in its focus. He trails his gaze over toward the officer. “Frances Laurens is John’s sister. He has full custody of her.”

The officer grimaced. But didn’t argue. “We’ve pulled up the correct files,” he admits uselessly. “We understand….this has been a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding that somehow led to John getting punched in the face, and Francine being collected by social services?” Because that’s what was missing in John’s story. The police arrested him. Took Francine away. _Why?_

There’s blood on John’s hands. His shirt’s been pulled. Bruising around his neck. He’s injured. Not _badly,_ but enough to show he’d been in a fight recently. There were no Wonder Woman bandaids plastered over his cuts. No frogs hiding his bruising.

The officer coughed. Lafayette hated him. “There was an altercation—”

“John?” Lafayette pressed. Ignoring the cop.

“They tried to stop me from leaving,” John mumbled. “This lady. This lady...and this guy. They tried to take Francine.”

The cop coughs. Clears his throat. Interjects and carefully explains what he can. From what he understood, Francine had started a meltdown. John picked her up and brought her outside when some passerbys saw the scene. They’d seen Francine, pale as a ghost and blonde as the sun. Then they’d seen John. Dark skin. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall and freckled.

The man called out to John. Started shouting at him. Accused him of being a predator. Distracted him just long enough that John hadn’t seen the woman. Hadn’t seen her until she was far too close and pulling a suddenly _terrified_ Francine from his arms. He went to reclaim her, got hit from the man in the process.

John beat the hell out of him, of course. _That_ Lafayette had very little trouble believing. His John fought better than most.

But the cops arrived just as he went after the woman — running as fast as she could with Francine screaming the whole while. The scene was “confusing” and John had been “irrational”.

 _Racial profiling,_ Lafayette’s mind helpfully points out. Even as he rubs his fingers against John’s perfect cheek. Skin yellowing and turning green, but flawless even without his bruising. The cop isn’t finished. He keeps going. Apparently John hit a cop. Resisted arrest.

And as the litany of charges start piling against him, Lafayette feels John wilting. Completely undone. A puppet with his strings cut. Weeks of getting better and true _happiness_ crushed in one afternoon.

“Richard Pratell,” the asshole who first hit John to begin with, “is in the hospital with a concussion and at least three broken bones. He and his wife are pressing charges,” the cop informs them. A miserable moan whines up from John’s throat.

His shaking’s starting anew. Enough is enough. Lafayette tucks John’s head to his shoulder. Looks up at the officer. “They’re pressing charges on _John_ when they’re the ones who attacked him? When _they’re_ the ones who tried to kidnap _his_ sister?” The question makes the cop grimace. His eyes slide to the clock on the wall. He’s itching to be done with this. Knows it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

Lafayette’s already running through the names of lawyers. Contacts. Herc had some dealings in the past, he has a list. Ranked from best to worst. He’s tempted to start calling Hercules now. Demanding his assistance.

_No. First thing’s first._

They need to get Francine.

“Where is our daughter?” he seethes. John’s breath hitches. His cuffed hands cling to Lafayette’s arm.

The cop stands and reaches for his cup of coffee. “She’s been taken into protective custody,” he starts slowly. “They need to do an evaluation. She won’t be coming back tonight.”

 _Well,_ Lafayette sees red, _fuck you._


	3. Chapter 3

The house is deathly silent. Toys all over the place. Evidence of Hurricane Francine. But no happy giggling. No “Ah-ah” and grabby hands. Lafayette keeps a hand on John’s hip. Guides him through the front door. Up towards the stairs. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. He guides John to their room. Helps peel John out of his clothes. Gets him into bed. 

They can’t fight. 

Hercules made them promise. When they passed along the story, Hercules made them promise. “We need pictures of John. Proof of his injuries. We need a timeline, and we need to establish everything that Pratell did. If you fight, you’ll skew the images. Twist their results. You  _ cannot  _ make this worse.” 

Lafayette wasn’t sure it could possibly get worse. But John agreed. Agreed, and became damn near catatonic from that point forward. There’s something wrong with all of this. Lafayette spent nearly two hours arguing with Hercules. “In my country you do not just kidnap a child from their parents and say you will do an evaluation!” 

Mulligan’s attempts to explain, “He was arrested, they didn’t even know if he’d be booked,” were  _ not  _ appreciated. “He still could be. He resisted arrest—”

“He never should have been under arrest to begin with!” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

And it didn’t. 

Laws and regulations were meant to protect the good. Not vindicate the wicked. John had been attacked. He’d tried to get out of it. Francine had been taken away. He’d panicked. And now she was gone. And he might very well go to jail over this. Misdemeanors piling up left and right. 

They’d done  _ nothing  _ to deserve this. 

Lying in bed, John stares up at the picture of his mother. Lafayette crawls towards him. Traces his fingers over the bruises he didn’t leave on John’s skin. The cuts that had no business on John’s brow.  _ How dare someone touch what wasn’t theirs.  _ “How bad did you hit him?” he asks softly. 

John lets out a shaking breath. Turns away from his mother to meet Lafayette’s eyes. His lips form a vicious snarl. “I would have killed him.” 

“Tell me.” 

His story is savage. Brutal. It doesn’t bring any kind of relief. Broken bones, concussion, John had struck the man hard and fast. Meaning to incapacitate immediately and to get to Francine quickly. “She was crying,” John continues to slide in. He presses his hands to his eyes. Takes a shuddering breath in. “She was crying the whole time.” 

Lafayette pulls John to his arms. Holds him close. Squeezes him tight. Rubbing circles on his back. It’s the end of the school year. They only have a few days left. Finals are happening left and right. It’s not fair. 

None of this is fair. 

 

***

 

Alex comes by in the morning. He and John have been awkward for ages now. Hurtful words long since past still rearing their ugly head. They’d been getting better since Francine. Since Henry Laurens died and gave John a reason to be hopeful again. But it didn’t change the fact that they’d been awkward for some time. 

And yet. Alex goes to John. Wraps his arms around him, and holds him close. John folds into the embrace and mimics the gesture. They clint to each other. Not saying anything. Not pretending there was anything  _to_ say. Just existing. Surviving. The one thing Alex and John had always done better than anyone else. 

When John's father had died, Alex had endless words to say. But it'd been different. The mess not nearly the same. Alex had known Henry. Had known what Henry did to John. Could remove himself from his own trauma long enough to explain that this is actually a good thing. That John could move on.

And it’d worked. Because John  _ had  _ moved on. Had started taking the bull by the horns. Had started smiling.  _ Loving  _ his sister. 

But Alex can’t fix this with a few “he’s dead and gone, isn’t that great?” whispered into his ear. Can’t make it right by encouraging John to realize that his dreams have finally come true. Can’t help him get through the shock and see to the other side. 

Because John’s not in shock. Not reeling from one piece of astounding news that led to an even more astounding relation. He’s depressed. And he’s lost. He’s  _ furious.  _ And he’s uncertain. 

So Alex holds on, because it's the only thing he can do. And when John asks, “What happens if I go to jail?” Alex just holds on tighter. 

It's Aaron Burr, who hates coming to Lafayette’s house, who is attached to Alex like a packaged item, who Lafayette truly doesn’t even understand to begin with, replies. “She’ll likely stay in foster care. If no one else in your family was willing to take her...” 

Alex purses his lips. “John’s not going to jail.”

Pressure builds in the back of Lafayette’s head. An increasing force that shows no signs of stopping. He takes a deep breath. Steps out of the room. Francine’s room is warm. Inviting. Her toys are neatly put away. Her medical equipment is scattered far less appropriately. His hand slides into his pocket. 

Shutting the door behind him, he slides against it. Pulls his knees to his chest as he stares at the phone. It sits charmingly in his palm. Pretending that it’s not a source of pain or anxiety. That it doesn’t well up feelings Lafayette would much rather forget or ignore. He thumbs it on. Finds his contacts list. 

He could dial it by heart. 

But seeing the name itself makes the decision all the more necessary. There’s no chance he could forget. No chance he could ignore. He takes a deep breath, and taps the screen. Brings the phone to his ear.

Down below, he listens as Alex tries to cheer John up. Tries to tell him that it’s going to be all right. They’re going to get out of this. Don’t worry. “You’re not going to jail.”

A voice answers on the second ring. “ _ Gilbert!”  _ his mother shrills. Joy in just saying the word alone. 

_ “Oui, maman. J'ai besoin de ton aide.”  _  There’s a slight pause. A quick  intake of breath. Lafayette imagines her standing to her full height. Nodding her head into nothingness.

_ “Que puis-je faire?” _

 

***

 

John goes running. He’s gone by the time Lafayette wakes up in the morning. Slipping out in the night like a ghost. Lafayette’s tempted to follow him, but there’s no telling which way he went. No telling the mood he’ll be in when he gets back. He could probably do with being alone for a while as it is.

It doesn’t change the image Lafayette conjures in his head. Where John beats the first person he sees  _ bloody _ , because he’s so furious he can’t hold it in any more. They never would have begun dating had John not lain into Lafayette that night. If he hadn’t thrown caution to the wind and responded to Lafayette’s instigations. 

He has no trouble imagining someone else pushing John past his breaking point. Especially because it’s so close to the surface. 

One hour slips into two. Into three. Lafayette can feel a buzzing under his skin. Pressuring him to move forwards. To do something. To fix this. He can’t fix this. There’s nothing to fix. 

The fantasy shifts and changes uncontrollably. John no longer striking the first person he sees. Instead, John on his stomach, an officer snapping cuffs around his wrists. John staring up and watching Francine get taken away. Glass shatters.

Lafayette flinches. Stares at the wall. The water staining it. Dripping down the floor. There’s glass in pieces everywhere. He’s shaking. He wants to tear someone apart. Wants to fight them until they bleed. Wants to take his  _ sweet  _ John and listen as he screams. Stretched open and moaning beneath him. Blood welling under his skin. Bruising because _ Lafayette  _ put them there. 

The door opens.

John stumbles in. Breathlessly. Gasping for air. He looks up. Eyes go immediately to the glass. The water. Lafayette wants to break him. Wants to send him to the ground and keep him there. His precious bird. His willful partner in all things. He wants to chain John’s limbs together. Wants to be the only person who can ever touch to or talk to John without his express permission.

John’s mouth snaps closed. He stalks forward. Covered in sweat. The run did nothing to cool his temper. To relax him into some state of acceptance. He grabs Lafayette’s wrist. Jerks it forward and brings his other hand to Lafayette’s throat. “Be careful what you start, mon  chéri ,” Lafayette warns.

Even knowing that it could damage their case, Lafayette doesn’t think he’s capable of stopping if John pushes. Not now. Not with his pulse pounding in his ears. Lafayette presses a hand to John’s chest. The only warning he can provide. “Stop me,” John growls. Keeping his voice low. Threatening. He squeezes his fingers around Lafayette’s throat. 

_ Enough. _

Lafayette presses back. Breaks the hold. Snaps his arm free of John’s grip then rotates. Lifts him up then throws him to the side. Away from the glass on the floor. John punches. Thrashes. Kicks. He’s violent and brutal. Punches landing with a biting sting. Bruises blossoming under his touch. 

Lafayette wants to break him. Wants to tear him apart. Piece him back together. Wants to send him crashing through his headspace. Wants to reach into John’s mind and shake loose the miasma that’s holding it hostage.

They fight. They fight their way through the kitchen. The living room. Blood drips from Lafayette’s knuckles. John’s not going for his throat. He’s weak from his run. Not full strength. Lafayette gets him. Gets him good. 

Twists him about and presses him to the ground. Uses pressure points and vice grips to frog march John to their bedroom. Throws him down on the bed. “Is this what you want?” Lafayette hissed at him. “Is it?” He straddles John’s body. Uses his weight to pin him. Uses both hands to wrap around John’s throat. 

Squeezing. 

_ Squeezing.  _

John’s hands grab at his wrists. He jerks. Eyes blown wide. He can’t breathe like this. Lafayette can feel air struggling to escape, but it won’t. Can’t. He’s crushing John’s windpipe. He’ll leave a string of bruises around John’s neck. 

The whole world will know John’s his. Will know—

Lafayette shoves himself backwards. Catches air. Falls too hard and too fast straight off the bed. Pain sparks through his tailbone. He slaps his palms against the floor to keep from hitting his head. It’s not fair.

It’s not  _ fair.  _

Mind buzzing. Heart pounding. Breath coming too fast. Lafayette feels weight press against his chest. Feels a body curl against his side. His arms move. Wrap around John as John tangles their legs together. As John twists so his nose is almost directly in his pit. He holds him tight. Uncaring. Unafraid.

“Don’t leave me,” John requests. 

Lafayette wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’s bound to John. Body and soul. He holds him so close. “Tu es à moi...Vous êtes tous à moi. Moi.  _ Moi. _ ”

“No...no-tray feel?”  _ Notre fille.  _ Lafayette crushes John to his side. 

“Notre fille,” he confirms.

_ He’s never been happier to make that phone call. _

_ He wishes he’d done it sooner.  _

 

***

 

He makes the mistake of not telling John. 

He leaves the house to get some groceries. John can’t bring himself to go. He gets so angry at the mere mention of the store that Lafayette isn’t sure that it’ll ever be worth the fight. John has every right to be upset. But the next closest store is almost an hour away, and Lafayette is  _ not  _ driving that far to pick up eggs. He may have money, but he’s not stupid with it.

He resolves to find someway to get back at the Wegmans family on his own, and then brings himself down. He’s halfway through his shopping list when he gets a text. 

 

[From Mon Amour]

_ Who do you know that’s French?  _

 

The next text comes in while he’s angling the cart to the meat aisle. 

 

[From Mon Amour]

_ In America.  _

 

While he’s meandering towards the frozen foods. 

 

[From Mon Amour]

_ What’s going on?  _

 

While he’s heading towards the register. 

 

[From Mon Amour]

_ You need to come home _

 

While he’s checking out. 

 

[From Mon Amour]

_ Gilbert. Come home NOW.  _

 

While he’s in his car, heading back. Going exactly three miles over the speed limit. 

[From Mon Amour]

How do you say: ‘I’m going to kill you’ in French?

By the time he pulls up into the driveway, Lafayette’s managed to rally his thoughts together. Take a deep breath. Accept the fact that his parents are inside, and that they’re with John. He opens his car door, and starts collecting all the groceries. Sliding the bags over his arms so he can make it in one trip. 

He’s halfway to the porch when the door is thrown open. John exploding out of it to meet him. John’s shaking.  _ John  _ is about to hit him in his face. “Careful,” Lafayette chides at the clenched fists and the swinging arm. The strike aborts into a fierce grab for bags. Fingers tearing the plastic loops from Lafayette’s writs. “Are my parents here?” Lafayette asks.

John’s not in the mood. “Is  _ that  _ who they are?” he sneers. His flush face only inches from Lafayette’s. “What are they doing here? And why didn’t you tell me they were coming?” 

He could lie. He knows he could. He could tell John one falsehood. Exchange it for another. He’s not sure if John will accept the truth. 

But the truth is what he’ll give. 

“My father owns a company in the United States. He has a team of lawyers. Lawyers are what you need now, yes?” John falls deathly still. Eyes widening. Mouth going slack. Lafayette leans in, kisses him sweetly on the lips. Lowers his voice. “You’re not going to jail,” he tells John firmly. 

Then he marches inside. Aside from that one phone call, he hasn’t seen or spoken to his parents in three years.

This should be fun.

 

***

 

First thing’s first. 

John was over-reacting. Maman and Père were there. Yes. But so was Pierre. And Pierre spoke flawless English. Lafayette grins when he sees the man. Breezing past his parents to give him a hug. He hasn’t seen him since he left France, and that’s a damn shame. He looks good! 

Pierre hugs him tight. Then releases him. “It is good to see you,” he tells Lafayette brightly. “And John has been a most gracious host in your absence.” A quick glance around proves that John really had done his best. There’s tea made. Crackers. Cheese. He played host and he did it flawlessly. His temperament could probably be excused by everyone. And they all do seem to be relatively pleased with themselves. 

Knowing he needs to do this, Lafayette walks to his parents one by one. Embraces them and greets them appropriately. Lets his mother run her fingers through his hair. Comment on his weight. His clothes.  _ “Tu es beau,” _ she smiles. He returns it. 

“John,” he holds his hand out to his boyfriend. Wiggles his fingers until John slowly approaches. Takes his hand. “These are my parents. And Pierre Ducard, our long time friend and lawyer.” 

“We’ve met,” John mutters quietly. Even quieter, “What are they doing here?” 

Never one to be talked about by others, Pierre clears his throat. Reaches for a briefcase that he had rested on their counter. He moves and sits in one of Lafayette’s arm chairs. Hums a little as he flips through the case to find a notepad and a pen. “We’re here because Gilbert called us.”

The date is marked off in the top right corner. Pierre gestures for them to sit. Lafayette pulls John to the couch. Makes him sit. His knees crumple beneath him. He stares at Pierre. Eyes wide. “Tell me about the case.” Maman and Père settle in on the other chairs in the room. Watching patiently. Quietly. 

Maman’s holding one of Francine’s toys. One of her favorites. Stroking her thumb over the fluffy material. Eyes pulled down. Sad. “You’re a lawyer?” John asks. Watching Maman from the corner of his eyes. Hands tightening into fists in his lap. 

Pierre nods. “I’m certified to practice law in every state of the Union,” he brags. He has every right to brag. It took him a long while to collect that many certifications. It takes more than one wall to hold all of them. Not to mention the certificates he’d received from France. Pierre is Père’s most trusted lawyer for a reason. There’s no one better than him. “And I’m going to practice the shit out of this.” 

 

And he’s got such classy turns of phrases. They make Lafayette smile. Even though John’s still tense. His heart is beating a mile a minute. Lafayette squeezes his hand. “Tell them what happened,” he prods. 

 

John opens his mouth. 

  
He speaks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to the following tumblrs who helped me with the french translations:  
> autistictesla, irlpinklepie, and elfyne. They made Lafayette's conversation with his parents far more entertaining than I could.

Pierre asks questions. Takes notes. Writes down everything that he can. He nods his head. Listens to John. Inspects the house. John ducks his head. Avoids eye contact. Talks quietly at his hands. Nodding occasionally. 

At around five, Maman summons Lafayette into the kitchen. He gives John’s hand a squeeze. Leaves him with Pierre who pauses to assess John’s reaction before he presses forward. Asks another question. John’s arms wrap around his body, but he doesn’t stop Pierre. Answers sotto voce as Lafayette leaves the room with his parents. 

_ “Ce n'est pas ton genre de demander de l'aide, d'habitude.”  _ Maman hums. Settling a pot in the sink. Filling it with water. Lafayette crosses his arms over his chest. Thinks about how he wants to answer that.

Decides on,  _ "C'est pas pour moi que je demande."  _ She smiles at the comment. Nods. 

But the smile fades as she flicks her eyes back towards the other room. John’s voice has quieted. But Pierre’s still talking. Lafayette struggles to pick out words. Struggles to determine what’s being said. Why.  _ "Il a l'air tout triste, ton John…”  _

His John. The words sound nice. The phrasing sounds sincere. And she has a point. Lafayette doesn’t know how to think of John in terms that aren’t possessive. John is his. Just as Francine is his by extension. 

His. Theirs. Their sister and daughter in one. He’s missed having here there. Having her small head pressed against his shoulder as he rocked her to sleep. Missed the shrieking laughter that she gave them every day. The way she’d stare up at him when he sang to her in French. How she smiled. How peaceful John had become. 

_ "Un grand coeur comme ça, c'est bien mon fils.”  _ Maman sighs. She steps forward. Places her hands on his cheeks.  _ "On va vous aider à récupérer votre petite fille." _

He nods curtly. Accepts that as fact. There’s a noise in the other room, and he leans around the corner to watch. John’s hands are pressed to his eyes and Pierre is quietly sitting in front of him. Waiting.  _ "Je veux qu'il soit heureux."  _ Lafayette murmurs.

His father clears his throat. Interjects himself into their conversation. Speaks,  _ "Alors on fera en sorte qu'il le soit.” _

 

***

 

John spends most of the day and evening in a daze. He doesn’t complain at the French that Lafayette’s parents speak almost exclusively. Doesn’t try to cut in as Pierre makes a few comments. After Pierre finished speaking with John, he’d gotten on the phone. Started pacing around the living room as he spoke in multiple languages. Stopping only to clarify something from time to time. 

He’ll be at it all night, Lafayette knows. And that’s fine. So long as John keeps focussed on something else, then Pierre can do his job. Maman is good at that though. Her English is poor. But her intents are pure. She takes John’s hands. Leads him to join them in the kitchen. She pats John’s hands. Smiles at him. Tells him sweet things, uses phrases that Lafayette’s used before. 

Simple words that John can understand. Can translate on his own. He nods when prompted. Eats the food that is put in front of him. John’s always had a strange relationship with women. Always deferential. Polite. Quiet. Layering over images past and present. Keeping his eyes forward. Trying as hard as he can not to make anyone upset. 

Maman is good with people who are hurting. She always has been. She sits at John’s side and coos at him in French. Plies him with food he can’t refuse, she smiles at him. Nods. Encourages. She asks him questions in broken English, and John replies quiet and demure.

When tears start slipping from John’s eyes, Lafayette knows he’s not crying. Knows that it’s just epiphora. John’s exhausted. He’s at the end of his rope. He’s falling asleep where he sits. But Maman takes it the wrong way. She makes a sound at the back of her throat. And she leans forward. Wraps her arms around John’s body. Holds him.

John’s face is a painting. His brown eyes like smeared brush strokes. His freckles like splotched accents. He raises his hands and wraps them around Maman’s body She strokes his hair. Hums gently. Whispers to John that it will be okay. John probably can figure out what those words mean. And he burrows closer to her body. 

John doesn’t usually talk about his own mother. The women who came and went through his life. Raising him. Caring for him. Samantha, Lafayette knows, came the closest to being someone John wanted to know. But the two of them never connected. Never slid into place. Never managed to take that last step.

It’s not hard to imagine John with his mother, though. Not hard to imagine him looking at the beautiful woman in John’s photograph with a wide open expression. Devoted and loving. John would be the son who made sure his mother’s house always had groceries. Who made sure she never wanted for anything. Who would strive each day to give back for the meager offerings that she’d been able to provide him. 

He sinks into Maman’s embrace. A wilting flower desperate for a drop of water. He probably doesn’t have it in him to cry anymore. Doesn’t have the ability to pull tears forth. To weep once more. Can only manage the vague leaking his eyes always do before he slips asleep. But Maman holds him regardless. Presses kisses to the side of his head. Gently strokes his hair. 

“You’re going to be all right,” she says in very accented English. “You will see.” 

 

***

 

Pierre is not to be trifled with. 

A Child Services agent comes to the house. Investigates everything. Goes through Francine’s room. Inspects the toys. The books. The educational materials that John and Lafayette had picked out. The movies that Francine used to watch with them. She asks them questions, and John answers them all beautifully. 

Francine doesn’t like to be touched first you always have to ask.

Francine can speak simple words if prompted slowly. 

Francine is auditory sensitive and cannot be around loud noises. 

There’s a baby monitor in Francine’s room in case she gets upset in the middle of the night. 

Francine.

Francine. 

Francine.

“You’re a little young to be caring for a child on your own,” the social worker announces. 

“With all do respect,” Pierre cuts in. “That’s not an argument. He’s Francine’s legal guardian, and his age is above the age of consent. The court has already declared John fit to be her parent. She was unlawfully removed from his custody. That’s what’s on the table.” 

The social worker scowls at Pierre. “You must understand that someone of John’s...experience—”

“Skin color,” Pierre smiles back. All teeth. “Let’s not equivocate.” 

John’s hands are rubbing together again. Thumb pressing down on the back of his palm. Trying in vain to push the color off. “We would never—” she falters. Regroups, “The experiences that they share—”

“Of being abused and neglected children of Henry Laurens? Of being orphaned too young? Of being siblings? Yes. You’re quite right. Their experience  _ does _ uniquely pull them together.” Pierre isn’t backing down. Isn’t pulling any punches. He’s a shark, and there’s blood in the water. “If you’d like to engage in a conversation about the lawsuit that will be levied against you and your department for racial profiling, discrimination, and undue mental anguish, please. I’d be happy to discuss  _ that _ with you.”

“You cannot threaten to sue us for not releasing custody—”

“Of a child you unlawfully kidnapped? Is there one logical reason you have not brought Francine Laurens home?” 

She sputters. Pierre withdraws a large book from his bag.  _ Contemporary Family Law.  _ “I’ve checked. I’ve scoured. There is  _ nothing  _ that can explain Francine’s relocation. John has the financial support, the appropriate safe-guard measures in his home, the support of familial assistance via Monsieur et Madame Lafayette. His criminal record is faultless— those charges  _ will be dropped,”  _ Pierre states it like a fact. “And you have still refused to produce this child.” 

The social worker can’t seem to form words. And John finishes Pierre’s coup-d'etat with one final request. “Please, just bring my sister home.” 

 

***

 

They’re assembled in the police station. Pierre tapping away on his cell phone, scowling at the screen. He’s in the middle of a settlement negotiation. The counter-suit against Richard Pratell turning into a mad scramble. Pratell didn’t think someone like John could afford a lawyer. Pratell didn’t think that John’s clear case of self-defence could be clearly defended. Pratell, Pierre mutters frequently,  _ est un imbécile.  _

There’s a faint sound in the distance. A high pitched wailing. Lafayette’s ears pick it up and his spine straightens. The door opens. The sound gets louder. John turns his head. Whirls around. Francine is being carried in by a haggard looking woman. Francine’s arms and legs are kicking and flailing in all directions. She’s  _ howling.  _

John’s on his feet. Running. He gets to her, and her tear stained face turns his direction. The screeching stops. Her eyes widen. Then she’s crying again, but she’s reaching for John. Grabby hands reaching, reaching, reaching. He takes her. Pulls her away from the woman holding her. Francine tucks against his chest. His arms wrap around her body. 

“Ket-ket-ket!” she chants in his ear.  _ (Kettle, kettle, kettle).  _ John cuddles her close, and shows no signs of letting her go. He holds her just how she likes. Supportive. Tight. Warm and embracing. She digs her hands into his hair. Rubs her face against the curls. Lafayette carefully steps into position at John’s back. Won’t take this away from John, but wants to see her. Desperate to see for himself that she’s okay.

Her blue eyes are closed. But she reaches a hand over John’s shoulder and her quiet crying stops when Lafayette bends his head down. Lets her press her fingers to his hair. “Ah-ah,” she tells John’s throat. 

“Ah-ah,” Lafayette echoes back. 

Somewhere, someone took a picture. He suspects it was his mother. It’s texted to him not long after.

He can’t bring himself to delete it.

 

***

 

Alex throws them a party. They come home, and there are Francine’s toys back on the floor where they belong. And cake. And smiling faces, and Francine reaches out to tug on Alex’s hair. And she pulls him after her so she can inspect the toys again with greater interest. John follows. Sits down on the floor so Francine can sit in his lap and show him everything once more. Like everything’s just brand new again. 

She never lets John out of her sight. Lafayette watches. Holds a plate full of cake and smile at them. Nodding periodically as he listens to Aaron and Hercules mingle on one side of the house. Tries not to roll his eyes when his parents and Pierre start discussing cooking and food. Pierre’s trying to find a place that can deliver.

Apparently they still don’t like pizza. Lafayette takes an extra slice and eats it loudly in front of them just to be spiteful. He doesn’t complain when Pierre goes to pick up something from Montcalm, though. After everything they’ve done for John...Lafayette knows he can be a little patient with their quirks. 

There are gifts too. Maman and Père purchased them as well. Which means that they’d been in communication with Alex at some point. How they met Alex, Lafayette’s not entirely sure. A lot has been happening in the past few weeks, and his focus has been on John for so long that he can’t quite piece together what his parent’s plans or motivations are. Pierre was probably involved, considering the perfect wrapping paper and the attention to detail. 

Francine shrieks and flaps her hands at the presents. She looks back at John and tugs him to the boxes. Planting them in his lap and flapping faster and faster. He unwraps them for her. Smiling. Giving her the wrapping paper to rub between her fingers and face. She buries her nose into the ribbon and waves it at Alex until Alex takes it and ties it in her hair. She shrieks again and runs to everyone. Showing off her ribbon.

Holding her arms to Lafayette to be picked up. Presents forgotten. John sits with the box in his lap. Doesn’t make any motion to keep going. He’s waiting for her. Will wait for eternity. Lafayette wishes that damn social worker was here. Here to see how good John can be at this. How careful he is. 

How much thought he’s put into this. 

Fuck her. Fuck her for not seeing John. For not seeing Francine. For not seeing that they belong together. Lafayette carries Francine back to John and Alex, lets her balance on his shoulders. Head on his skull. Hands in his hair. She looks down and watches John carefully open the box. Band-aids. 

She shrieks. Legs swinging back and forth. Bruising Lafayette’s chest with her bony little heels. He grins. Even as his ears ache at the remarkable decibel. He grins. Lets John hand her a box. Lets her scramble off his shoulders. Always in motion. She tears open the packaging. 

One Band-aid for Alex. One for Aaron. For Hercules, Maman, Père, and Pierre who’s just walked in with dinner. He takes it with the utmost reverence. Allows her to put it on the back of his palm before she rushes over to John. 

Three on John’s face. One on his throat. A few on his clothes. His fingers.  _ (Ket-Ket-Ket)  _ Lafayette gets one in his hair. On his forehead. On his left ear.  _ (Pot-pot-pot) _

It’s a ridiculous assortment, but Francine is smiling and giggling and she’s so happy, Lafayette can’t breathe. 

He looks up at John. John’s smiling at him.

He leans forward and kisses Lafayette. Right here in front of everyone. Nothing filthy. Nothing insinuative. Just a kiss. Somewhat long. Somewhat improper. But flawless nonetheless. John settles back on his heels. Francine emerges in his place. Kisses both of Lafayette’s cheeks. Left one first. Then does the same to John. She sprawls in John’s lap, and is asleep only five minutes later. 

He was right all those weeks ago.

Francine’s theirs. Their daughter. Lafayette can’t think of anything else he wants. John and Francine are sitting together just in front of him. And his heart is at peace.

 

***

 

Maman and Père take their sweet time in leaving. As the storm dies down, the fear fades, the lawsuits end, they stay with John, Francine, and Lafayette. They stay there, and they make food. They make desserts. They sing French lullabies to Francine and they kiss her cheeks. 

Pierre argues into his phone, “ Excuse you, shall I cite the  _ exact _ docket number for the case law you've clearly forgotten about? Or are we going to pretend you actually passed your bar exam?” While John navigates the kitchen and makes a pot of coffee. He hands a mug to Pierre who claims John’s the only human being on the planet capable of making decent coffee, and John rolls his eyes with the same affection Lafayette’s seen him bestow upon Alex. 

Père tells ridiculous jokes to John in an attempt to teach him French. “ _Gilbert est à l’école et demande s’il peut aller au WC. La maîtresse dit non. Puis elle demande a Gilbert où est le plus grand fleuve du monde, et Gilbert répond: – “il est sous mon banc!”_ ’ Lafayette groans. Presses his hand to his face and shakes his head. John mouths out the words, trying to figure them out. He turns to Lafayette for assistance, but there’s no way Lafayette’s translating that joke. Even as his father hoots with undignified laughter. 

“It is good,  _ oui?”  _ Père asks. 

_ “Non, Père, non,” _ Lafayette replies shortly.

His father doesn’t listen. Never does. Instead, he goes to tell Francine the joke. And she laughs like she can understand it, and John frowns and asks if Francine speaks better French than him. “Little Aaron speaks better French than you,  _ mon amour.”  _ Lafayette laments. Dodging the punch John sends towards his ribs. It’s playful, but his father sees it. Arches a brow. Grins. Then  _ waggles  _ that brow suggestively. 

“When are you leaving again?” Lafayette moans. Pressing a hand to his face. Enough of this. He’s tired of playing good son. 

“You’d deny your parents a chance to be with their grandchild?” Pierre asks from wherever he’s lodged himself and his cellphone. It’s battery had died last Lafayette checked. He imagines Pierre sitting half crouched under a table so he can still text while charging the phone with his too short plug. 

_ “Francine est pas leur petite-fille,” _ Lafayette snaps back. 

_ “Oui elle l'est,” _ John replies. Lafayette’s eyes land on John’s face with the kind of blinding speed that made his head spin. For a moment, he can’t quite believe John’s said it. Said it  _ well.  _ Even. John’s face is turning dark. His teeth are biting at one of his lips. He shifts his weight. 

_ "Il n'y a pas de quoi avoir honte, tu sais."  _ Père says.  __

Lafayette takes a moment, thinks about what his father just said, and then stops. No. This is ridiculous.  _ "OK, je refuse de parler de ça." _

John’s frowning at them. Mouthing words, trying to understand. Père snorts. Shakes his head. Waves his hand towards John. Even goes so far as to touch John’s hair. Stroking it lightly.  _ “Pourquoi pas?” _ he asks. John blinking at them all in confusion.  _ “ _ _ Tu sais que je suis là pour toi! Et puis regarde comme il est mignon. Il faut en parler, au contraire."  _ Père grins at John. “Apologies,” he says in English. “But your hair.” 

John lifts his hand to his head. Confusion still evident. He shoots Lafayette a look. And Lafayette knows him well enough to know he’s uncertain. Flat-footed. A touch off-kilter and ready for an explanation. Lafayette doesn’t give him one. Instead, he scowls at his father. Answering John’s request from weeks ago. How do you say ‘I’m going to kill you’ in French?  _ "Je vais te tuer, papa." _

  
His father, who has the nerve to snort, _"Je ne crois pas, non."_ In response. 

_ “Ca reste illégal." _ Pierre calls out from the kitchen. 

“What’s going on?” John asks. Père giggles. Actually  _ giggles.  _ And then to make this collection even worse, Maman drags Pierre out of the kitchen so they can have this Family Discussion. 

_ "Ce n'est rien, mon chéri.”  _ Maman tells him.  “ _ Tout le monde a ses fétiches." _

Lafayette flushes. He raises a hand to his face. This is absurd. Absolutely absurd. "Maman, si j'ai quitté la France, c'est justement pour ne plus t'entendre parler de fétiches." Scowling, he marches past John. Francine gives him an “ah-ah” and waves her hands. He waves back, then starts looking. 

Père sighs,  _ "N'exagère pas, ça fait immature."” _

Maman nods. Steps closer. Chides,  _ "Ne sois pas ridicule, comment est-ce que tu crois que tu es venu au monde?" _

Lafayette chokes on air. He coughs. One hand going to his mouth as the other finally locates Francine’s shoulder harness. She’s grown a little since the last time he put it on. His mother calls his name, draws it out as though she’s going to start another rampage.   _ "Quoi– non, ça suffit. On n'en parle plus." _

Pierre hums. Unimpressed.  _ "C'est pourtant vrai."  _ It takes Lafayette a moment to understand what he meant.  _ What was true _ . And then. 

He shouts,  _ "Qu'est-ce que tu en sais? Tu n'étais même pas là!" _ John and Francine both seem very startled by his outburst. Staring at him with wide eyes. Mouths falling open. This is too much. Absolutely too much.

Pierre hums, directs his attention back to his cell-phone.  _ "Je n'ai jamais dit que...je n'étais pas présent."  _

_ "C'est bon, c'est fini. Salut. Quand est-ce que vous rentrez en France? Allez-vous-en, je vous en supplie." _ Lafayette makes his final adjustments for the shoulder harness. Francine shrieks with delight. He settles her in. Then briskly informs everyone he’s going for a run. 

His mother seems  _ startled  _ by his declaration. Like it actually shocked her.  _ "Mon chéri–" _

_ "Stop! Ca suffit!"  _ he insists. Throwing open the door as Pierre sighs and tells John that Lafayette gets embarrassed so easily, hasn’t he noticed? And no. John hasn’t noticed. Why would he? 

 

***

 

At night, John sleeps curled against Lafayette’s chest. He sighs when Lafayette runs his fingers through John’s hair. He smiles, lips spreading along Lafayette’s skin. The tension in John’s shoulders has started to fade. His body slinking in loosely. His temperament mellowed.

The school year is going to start back up again soon. They’ll have to start thinking about re-organizing their schedules. Putting things back the way the should be. Taking time away to make sure someone was always with Francine. Alex loved babysitting. He’d help. 

Even Burr would help. Lafayette smiles at the thought of Aaron trying to teach Francine manners. Their little hellion stamping her feet and wagging her finger at them dispassionately. He likes the idea. Thinks she’d give Aaron hell. 

He shifts a little. Turns so John’s lying beneath him. Blinking up wearily. Waking up and yawning as Lafayette undulates over his body. He drags his teeth to John’s collar bone. “Thank you,” John whispers. Lafayette pauses. Frowns. Looks up at John. 

“For what, mon amour?” 

“Everything,” John sighs. He sits up. Rubs at his eyes. Lafayette crosses his legs. Waits. He’d wanted to have sex, not talk. But apparently John’s focus is on one thing only at the moment. John looks at him. “You...all of this. You didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to.” 

John sighs. Shakes his head. “I know...I know. I just. You didn’t  _ have  _ to.” He reaches out. Takes Lafayette’s cheeks between his palms. “Thank you.  _ Thank you. _ ” 

“You’re both mine,” Lafayette tells him. “I take care of what’s mine.” John’s mouth twist into a satisfied grin. He leans forwards. Bites at Lafayette’s lips. 

“How about I take care of you now?” 

And.  _ Okay that feels nice.  _

 

***

 

Pierre, Maman, and Père leave before school starts. They have another campaign to undertake. Another business to conquer. John stumbles through French, but wishes them safe travels. Promises that he’ll visit them in France one day. 

Lafayette would like that. See John writhing in the dance clubs. Body on display. Showing the world just how gorgeous he is, but then taking John and keeping him from all his adoring fans. Would like to see John’s face as he walks through the streets of Paris. Would like to have John stretched out underneath him. Whispering “yours” in his ear. 

Francine in their childhood home. Swinging her legs. Chirping happily. Laughing. Being cuddled. Fed all manner of ice cream and sweets. 

The plan the trip for winter break. Lafayette counts the days. Even as he rejoices his parents are gone. “What  _ were  _ they talking to you about?” John asks curiously. “That day? When you left?”

Lafayette mumbles something in response. Distracts. Evades. Francine calls them Pot and Kettle, then waves Band-aids to be placed. She flaps her hands and shrieks for a juice box. They give it to her.  

Lafayette looks up. Smiles. There’s only one word to describe this. And it’s—

Home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette/Maman's Conversation in the kitchen:  
> “You do not generally ask for help,” -Maman  
> "Ce n'est pas ton genre de demander de l'aide, d'habitude."
> 
> “I’m not asking for me.” -Lafayette  
> "C'est pas pour moi que je demande."
> 
> “Your John...he is quite sad.” -Maman  
> "Il a l'air tout triste, ton John..."
> 
> “Such a big heart, my son has. We’ll help bring your baby home.” -Maman  
> "Un grand coeur comme ça, c'est bien mon fils. On va vous aider à récupérer votre petite fille."
> 
> “I want his happiness,” -Lafayette  
> "Je veux qu'il soit heureux."
> 
> “Then that’s what we’ll get.” -Maman  
> "Alors on fera en sorte qu'il le soit."
> 
>  
> 
> ______________
> 
> Pére's joke:  
> Gilbert est à l’école et demande s’il peut aller au WC. La maîtresse dit non. Puis elle demande a Gilbert où est le plus grand fleuve du monde, et Gibert répond :  
> – “il est sous mon banc”.
> 
> The biggest river in the world
> 
> Gilbert, at school, asks [his teacher] if he can go to the bathroom. The teacher says no. Then, the teacher asks Gilbert where the longest river in the world is. Gilbert answers:  
> – “It’s under my bench.”
> 
>  
> 
> _____________________________
> 
> THE CONVERSATION: 
> 
> “You know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of” - Pére  
> "Il n'y a pas de quoi avoir honte, tu sais."
> 
> “Okay, we’re not having this conversation.” - Lafayette  
> "OK, je refuse de parler de ça."
> 
> “Why not? You know I’m here for you! Besides, look at him! He's so cute! We definitely should talk about this." - Pére  
> "Pourquoi pas? Tu sais que je suis là pour toi! Et puis regarde comme il est mignon. Il faut en parler, au contraire."
> 
> "Dad, I will kill you." - Lafayette  
> "Je vais te tuer, papa."
> 
> "No you wont!" - Pére  
> "Je ne crois pas, non."
> 
> “That’s still illegal” - Pierre  
> "Ca reste illégal."
> 
> “Honey, it’s okay. Everyone has kinks.” - Maman  
> "Ce n'est rien, mon chéri. Tout le monde a ses fétiches."
> 
> “Mother, I specifically left france to never hear you say the word ‘kink’ again’” - Lafayete  
> "Maman, si j'ai quitté la France, c'est justement pour ne plus t'entendre parler de fétiches."
> 
> “Don’t exaggerate, it makes you sound immature.” -Pére  
> "N'exagère pas, ça fait immature."
> 
> “You’re being ridiculous, how do you think you were conceived?” - Maman  
> "Ne sois pas ridicule, comment est-ce que tu crois que tu es venu au monde?"
> 
> “What—no. We’re done. We’re done now.” -Lafayette  
> "Quoi– non, ça suffit. On n'en parle plus."
> 
> “It’s true though” - Pierre  
> "C'est pourtant vrai"
> 
> “How would you even know? You weren’t there!” -Lafayette  
> "Qu'est-ce que tu en sais? Tu n'étais même pas là!"
> 
> “I never said I...wasn’t there.” -Pierre  
> "Je n'ai jamais dit que je n'étais pas présent."
> 
> “Okay. That’s it. Goodbye. When are you all going back to France? Please. Leave.” -Lafayette  
> "C'est bon, c'est fini. Salut. Quand est-ce que vous rentrez en France? Allez-vous-en, je vous en supplie."
> 
> “Honey—” -Maman  
> "Mon chéri–"
> 
> “We’re done!” -Lafayette  
> "Stop! Ca suffit!"

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that like "Letting Go" - this fic is A MASSIVE departure from the actual non-stop universe. Francine will not be appearing in Non-Stop, and she has NOT been adopted by John in that verse.


End file.
